“Luxury came into the house. The Luvers bought a coach and kept horses. The coachman’s name was Davlecha. Rubber-tired wheels were quite a novelty at the time. When they went for a ride, everything turned and stared after the coach: people, fences, chapels and roosters. When the coach, out of respect for Mrs. Luvers, started off at a walking speed, she shouted after them: “Don’t go too far, only to the turnpike and back. And look out when you go down the mountain!” The pale sun, which reached he...r on the doctor’s veranda, glided further along the street, till it reached the nape of Davlecha’s freckled neck and warmed him so that his skin contracted pleasantly. They drove over the bridge. The conversation of the planks sang out, cunning, full and clear; it was fixed for all time, forever locked in the chasm below and always in her memory, at noon and in her sleep. Vykormish stamped up the mountain and tried his strength on the steep, unyielding pavement. He stretched and pulled and heaved; he looked like a wriggling locust and, humbled by his unnatural effort, he suddenly became beautiful, like the creature that by its very nature is meant to jump and fly.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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